


The Only Prayer

by sea_spirit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 07:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16192616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_spirit/pseuds/sea_spirit
Summary: Brienne stumbles upon a sept on her journey back to Winterfell. As she ponders and prays within its walls, Brienne has no idea that someone unexpected is on his way to find her.





	The Only Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s my humble contribution to the delight that is JB Week. Thanks to all the JBO ladies for organizing the festivities and making this newbie feel welcome. 
> 
> It starts out a little somber (it IS the day of the Stranger, after all), but lightens up at the end. I hope you enjoy it!

Two days after they left the city, it began to snow.

The small, delicate flurries melted into nothing when they touched the ground, but their presence made Brienne uneasy nonetheless. She couldn’t recall the last time it had snowed this far south, and the turn in the weather didn't bode well for the rest of their journey.

Three days later, flakes nearly the size of coppers fell thickly from the gray sky. By late afternoon, a blanket of white covered the Kingsroad, and great crystalline clumps had frozen in the fur of Brienne's cloak. She saw poor Podrick shiver more than once as he repeatedly brushed the frigid slush from his hair and horse and clothes.

When they reached a small village just after crossing out of the Crownlands, Brienne took pity on her squire and bid him to secure two rooms at the inn. They both could use a warm, dry place to sleep after the day’s miserable ride.

A few minutes later, Pod emerged, smiling and seemingly revived by the prospect of a bed and a hot meal.

“I’ll see to the horses, milady,” he said cheerfully. “And bring in our things.”

“Thank you, Pod,” Brienne replied, glancing over her squire’s shoulder to look down the road. “I’m going to have a look around. I won’t be long. Go inside and warm yourself when you’re finished.”

“Yes, milady.”

She gave Pod a small smile before heading toward the heart of the village. He was a good lad, but Brienne hadn’t had a moment on her own since they’d departed King’s Landing. She needed a little time to think, and to stretch her stiff and road-weary limbs.  

As she walked, Brienne received an odd look or two from the few villagers she passed, but nothing she wasn’t accustomed to. Confusion, ridicule, repulsion… she’d seen it all before. To people such as these, she would always be distinctive and unusual, but at least she was no longer dangerously so.

Brienne hadn’t traveled freely in this part of the country in so long that she’d forgotten what it felt like. As a representative of the Lady of Winterfell and now-ally of the Lannisters, she feared no danger from the soldiers she and Pod passed on the Kingsroad. No one stalked the woods and roads looking for her. No one had a price on her head—or the head of someone she had sworn to protect.

Thoughts of new allies and old oaths inevitably led Brienne’s mind to snag on Jaime, as it so often did. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way he’d looked at her in the Dragonpit—his gaze both hard and sad, his face filled with a desperate sort of anger that had perplexed and concerned her. But she quickly shook the thought of him away.

 _It’s only because we’ve entered the Riverlands_ , Brienne told herself. This place would always be linked with recollections of what they had endured here, of the enemies that had pursued them from all sides.

Now, she was no one’s enemy. The last time that had been the case was before she’d left King Renly’s camp with Lady Catelyn all those years ago. It seemed distant enough to be another lifetime.

Lost in the past, Brienne wandered all the way to the edge of the village, where she stopped to scan the surrounding fields and forest through the haze of snow. A raven’s grating caw echoed across the vast space, but all else was quiet and still.

She knew her habitually cautious scouting wasn’t strictly necessary, but Brienne couldn’t help herself. _Old habits_ , she mused, turning back toward the inn.   

Before she’d gone more than a few steps in that direction, an oddly shaped building caught her eye. It stood a little apart from the others, and it took Brienne a moment to recognize the structure for what it was.

Although she had been raised in the light of the Seven, Brienne hadn’t set foot inside a sept for some years. Her childhood held too many unpleasant memories of the Faith for her to find any comfort or peace within their seven walls.

But something—perhaps the lingering memory of Lady Catelyn—compelled her to approach the threshold and push open the door. It swung aside with a groan and, after a moment’s hesitation, Brienne stepped inside.

She found herself in a small antechamber, unadorned and windowless, and Brienne left the door open to let in what little remained of the day’s fading light. Continuing forward, she passed beneath a simple archway and entered the sept itself. Slightly disoriented by the strange angle of the walls, Brienne realized that the entrance had been carved into one of the room’s seven corners.

A small ceremonial table sat in the center of the battered wooden floor, and humbly appointed altars stood against each wall. Unlike the sept on Tarth, with its carved busts of the Seven, this one displayed only framed drawings—albeit large, beautifully rendered ones. Despite their simplicity, there was something more striking about these depictions than the cold stone images of Brienne's youth, something visceral and immediate.

The worshippers’ candles—many more than Brienne had expected—emitted a golden glow that made the simple space feel warm despite the chill in the air. Several flickered on the altars of the Father, the Maiden, and the Warrior, and a lone flame guttered beneath the Crone. The Mother, though, had a veritable bonfire blazing at her feet. But Brienne supposed it was natural for people to seek her mercy and protection at such a time.

Only a few unlit candles remained on the central table. Not wanting to deprive the villagers—who undoubtedly believed more fervently in the power of prayer than she did—of their worship, Brienne decided she would light one, and only one.

Picking up a single stubby stick of wax, Brienne looked around the room.

Her eyes gravitated first to the Warrior, who’d been her favorite as a child. She’d prayed often to him for courage and victory over the years; now, she craved his strength. _Let my sword be true_ , she thought. _Let all our swords be true._

But thoughts of Lady Catelyn drew Brienne away from the Warrior, guiding her feet toward the Mother's altar. The kind face looking out from the wall reminded her of her former lady, and she felt an unexpected surge of melancholy. Lady Catelyn had not deserved such a cruel fate, and neither had her daughters. Since their mother wasn’t here, she could at least pray to _the_ Mother for their safety.

She touched the candle to one of the many already burning on the altar. But just before Brienne set it down, something stopped her—a nagging sense of doubt she could neither explain nor ignore.

Brienne frowned, glancing once more around the room. Perhaps she should at least _look_ at the other altars, appreciate the drawings, before making her decision. If she was actually going to pray, she wanted to be sure.

Turning away from the luminous array before her, Brienne continued around the room. She came next to the Father’s altar, where the drawing showed him holding his usual scales with a look of judgment on his stern, bearded face. It seemed ridiculous to pray for justice now. The fight they faced was about survival. About life. _Justice will come later,_ Brienne thought, leaving the altar behind her. _If it comes at all._

Her footsteps slowed in front of the Maiden, but she didn’t stop. As she passed, Brienne scanned the beautiful, willowy figure on the wall. She had wide, innocent eyes, soft features, and flowers in her flowing hair. But the delicate depiction only confirmed what Brienne had already known: there was nothing for her here. Though she was still a maid, she had no innocence left to protect.

She did stop at the altar of the Smith, admiring the power the artist had conveyed in the god’s strong arms and hands, one of which gripped a great hammer. _Mender of broken things_ , Brienne thought sadly. _Can you mend our broken world_? She imagined all the people in the North and on Dragonstone, preparing their armies for war. _Guide their hands_.

Brienne passed straight by the Stranger and made her way to the altar of the Crone, completing her circle of the room. One other soul had found solace in front of this stooped, wizened woman, although the solitary candle looked as though it would soon go out. Her face both shrewd and benevolent, the Crone held her lantern high, as if to light the way. _Grant us your guidance and wisdom as we face the coming darkness,_ Brienne thought, feeling compelled to set her candle down. _What better prayer could I offer?_

But a tug of conscience drew her back to the god she’d ignored; she _had_ intended to examine every altar, after all. The hooded figure of the Stranger was shown twisting toward the wall, its face hidden from view. There was nothing menacing or ghastly to behold here. The depiction struck Brienne instead as profoundly cold, and she felt suddenly, irrationally angry.

 _Whose side are you on, anyway?_ she wondered bitterly. Death itself marched on them all, and where was this god? Where were any of them?

So many lives would be lost, she knew, perhaps even her own. But Brienne would offer it gladly if she could die for something she believed in, for someone who mattered to her. _Just don’t take any more people I have sworn to protect. Don’t make me watch as you come for the ones I love._

The Stranger had already stolen King Renly and Lady Catelyn from her, and she didn’t want to live through such a thing again. She didn’t want to lose Lady Sansa, or Arya or Bran. _They’ve lost so much. Let them keep each other, and live to see peace_.

Her mind drifted to her father, whom she hadn’t seen in years, and then to Pod—sweet, devoted Pod. _Let him live to become a knight_ , she thought. _He will make a good knight. A true knight._

Then, once more, her thoughts turned to Jaime.

A series of vivid memories flooded her awareness, flicking by so rapidly they almost made her dizzy: the first time she’d seen him, bound and bleeding, kneeling in the mud; the flash of his sword when they’d fought on the bridge; the terrible sound of his scream when he’d lost his hand; the shining in his eyes when they’d parted at Harrenhal; the moment he’d unwrapped Oathkeeper and held it out to her; the sight of him on his white horse outside Riverrun; the despair she’d sensed in him at the Dragonpit.

_Please don’t take Jaime._

They had shared such little time. Just moments, really. But they were moments Brienne would carry with her forever. And along with them came a tiny piece of Jaime—the barest little sliver—that would always belong to her. Just like his sword, eternally strapped to her hip.

Brienne knew she would never have more. They would see each other again soon, of course, and they would work together for the common good. Perhaps they would even share a few more moments that Brienne could tuck inside herself, beside the others. But when the war was over, they would be on opposite sides once more. If they survived. If he survived.

_Please let him live. Please don’t take the man I love._

With that prayer, unbidden though it was, Brienne placed her candle on the Stranger’s altar. She knew there were far better, more worthy things to pray for, but it was the only prayer she wanted to make.

Her vision blurred as she watched the flame dance in the cold air, casting shadows that made the Stranger’s robes seem to flutter in an otherworldly breeze.

“Brienne.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. This, _this_ , was why she didn’t allow herself to think of Jaime Lannister. He invaded her mind so completely that she was hallucinating his voice.

“Brienne.” She heard it again—louder now, more forceful.

Was this a cruel trick of the gods? Was the Stranger mocking her? The sound was so clear and palpable she could _swear_ it was real.

A step thudded dully on the floor, and Brienne’s heart leapt high in her chest. She turned sharply toward the noise, her hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt.

And there he was.

_Jaime._

“Are you praying to the Stranger?” His lip curled in amusement as he considered her intently, his blue eyes soft and quizzical.

Brienne blinked at him, her gaze darting from the scruffy shadow along his jaw to his unusually drab and simple clothing to the leather glove covering his golden hand. “Ser Jaime?”

He smiled, just a little, at the confusion in her voice.

“How—what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he replied with a shrug, as if that should have been evident. “I found Pod at the inn. He told me you walked this way.”

She frowned. “No, I meant _here_. Headed north. You can’t possibly have mustered your forces so quickly.” Brienne’s eyes passed over his nondescript attire once more. “And where’s your armor?”

A sharp pain flitted across his features so quickly Brienne could almost have imagined it. But she knew his face well enough to be certain she had not.

Without thinking, she took a step toward him. “What’s happened?”

Jaime stared unblinkingly into her eyes for a long moment—so long that Brienne nearly spoke again—before giving a slight shake of his head. “The army’s not coming. Cersei lied. To Tyrion, to everyone. To me. She never had any intention of helping Jon Snow or the Targaryen girl. She’s planning to bide her time, strengthen her hold on the south, and mop up the victor when this war is over.”

She watched as Jaime steeled himself for her response. Jaw tight and mouth grim, he was clearly prepared for her shock and outrage. But Brienne felt only a sense of numb disappointment and resignation. Cersei had lied. Terrible and foolish, yes. Surprising? No.

What _did_ surprise her was that Jaime would expose Cersei’s betrayal, and that he had followed them north to do it.

“But you’re here?” she ventured, hoping he could hear the rest of her question, the part of it she dared not ask.

An upward twitch of his eyebrows and the slightest widening of his eyes signaled Jaime’s astonishment at her reply. Then, features smoothing, he nodded.

“Yes. Someone I trust recently reminded me that this goes beyond loyalty and houses.” As he spoke, Jaime stepped forward, closing the distance that had remained between them. “But she was wrong about one thing. This isn’t beyond honor. This is when honor matters more than ever. And I made a promise. So I'm here.”

Brienne’s chest rose as she drew in a long breath, marveling at his words—at the fact that he had heard hers and taken them to heart far more deeply than she’d realized.

She had long known there was more to him than the world saw—than _he_ saw. And now, teetering on the edge of losing all he’d worked so hard to protect, when it would have been easiest to turn away from what was right, he stood here in front of her. _This_ was the man he was. _This_ was Jaime Lannister.

“I'm proud of you,” she offered, recalling how much it had meant to her, once, to hear those words from his lips. Before she could lose her nerve, she added, “And I'm glad you're here, Ser Jaime.”

His eyebrows shot up once more, then slowly lowered until faint creases formed between them.

 _Oh gods,_ she thought. _I should not have said that_.

But then his look of puzzled disbelief melted into one of warmth and wonderment. It unnerved her, the way he was looking at her now. It made something fragile inside of her feel on the verge of breaking.

Still, he said nothing, and Brienne couldn’t bear the intensity of the silence.

“Does anyone else know?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “I rode hard for three days to catch you. And there wasn’t time to send word before I left the city. Cersei, she…” He swallowed so hard that Brienne could see the pronounced bob of his throat. “We did not part well.”

Her heart ached for his obvious pain. That he had left, and gone against his sister’s plan to do it, told Brienne all she needed to know about what had happened—about what this choice had cost him. She would not probe that wound by asking questions. Not yet.

So she simply inclined her head in the direction of the door. “We must go, then, as soon as we can. Your brother, the queen, they must be told.”

“Yes, of course. But I’d appreciate one night under a roof before we do.” Jaime smiled wryly. “My old bones don’t do so well on the ground as they used to, especially with this damned cold. And I’ve been sleeping in the woods, trying not to be seen. Cersei let me go, but she may yet send someone after me. I would not have taken the Kingsroad if I hadn’t been sure you were traveling on it.”

As Brienne considered his request, she noticed the tiredness around Jaime’s eyes. He was safer with her and Pod than on his own, certainly. And everyone who needed to hear his grim news was currently sailing north aboard the queen’s fleet. Their only choice would be to send a raven to White Harbor, so the message would reach them when they made port. One night’s delay would make no difference.

“We have rooms,” she finally replied, moving toward the door. “You can share with Pod.”

Jaime followed her from the sept, not speaking again until they’d reached the snowy street. “I don’t want the poor lad to lose his bed.”

“It’s too dangerous for you to sleep alone,” she insisted. “He’ll live.”

Afternoon had slipped into evening, and the road was dark and empty as they walked toward the inn. The snow had slackened, too, into a gentle fall of light, fluffy flakes.  

A minute or two had passed in what Brienne thought was comfortable silence when Jaime abruptly cleared his throat.

“Why were you praying to the Stranger?”

Her eyes flicked over to his face. She’d heard something odd in his voice, something more than his usual teasing lilt. He sounded...concerned.  

Brienne sighed. “It was foolish.”

He said nothing, just turned to look at her expectantly.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she continued, more tersely than she’d intended, “but I was praying for the safety of the people I care about.”

It sounded incredibly naive and idealistic, even to her own ears. And Jaime already thought she was both.

But his response surprised her. “Not to the Mother, then?”

“No. She isn’t the one who takes them.”

“Ah. I see.”

 _Does he?_ Feeling the need to explain, Brienne went on, “I’ve lost enough people I love. We all have. I’d like not to lose any more, unlikely as that is. It seemed like...the only prayer that mattered.”

“I understand,” he assured her. “You prayed for your father, I imagine? For the Stark girls?”

“Yes, for the Stark girls and their brother. For my father. For Pod.” After a moment’s pause, the silence broken only by the crunch of their boots in the snow, she added, “And for you.”

“For _me_?”

She nodded, unable to look at him.

“But you said…” Jaime trailed off, and his footsteps slowed.

The sudden touch of his hand on her arm brought her to a halt. Startled, she met his gaze and saw a dawning comprehension there that made her stomach twist.

“Do you—did you just…?” He seemed to find the idea so unbelievable he couldn't even form a coherent question.

She wanted to protest, to refute the thing he hadn't said, but she couldn’t lie to him. No matter how much she wished she could.

When she didn’t speak, he moved closer to her, his eyes warm and insistent.

“Do you love me?”

Brienne sucked in a rush of air through her nose, and the icy burn nearly made her eyes water. His tone had stunned her far more than his words; it held none of the incredulity or aversion she’d expected—just a gentle curiosity.

Swallowing past the sudden constriction in her throat, she did her best to remain level under his inquiring stare. “You are an honorable knight, Ser Jaime, and my friend. I do not wish to see you die.”

Even as she uttered them, Brienne could tell Jaime saw right through her words. If what he’d said hadn’t been true, she would have told him as much, and he knew it.

“That didn’t sound like a ‘no.’”

Brienne grimaced, looking away. Overtaken by frustration and sorrow, she wished she’d prayed to the gods to help her stop loving men who would never love her in return. _Wasn’t it enough to curse me with this body? This face? Why burden me with a girlish heart as well?_

But there was little point in denying it now, so Brienne squared her shoulders and raised her eyes. “No. It was not.”

“Brienne…” he began huskily, then let out a jagged breath. “When?”

She shrugged, glancing down at her boots. “For a long time now.” When her gaze returned to his face, Brienne found his brow wrinkled with an unreadable emotion. The downward turn of his mouth, though, looked apologetic. “Don’t pity me, Ser Jaime. I can abide anything but that.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, deepening the creases in his forehead. “Pity you? Why would you think that?” He huffed. “Believe me, of the two of us, the person I pity is me.”

“What?” she blurted. “I don't—”

“You foolish woman,” he interrupted, tilting his head forward and peering up at her from beneath arched brows. “Did it not occur to you to wonder why I rode for _you_? Why I risked the Kingsroad to find you?”

She shook her head vaguely, and Jaime smiled. A full, earnest smile that made his eyes twinkle and her chest feel tight.

“I wanted to ride north with you. To fight with you. If this _were_ about loyalty, you would have mine.” His hand moved restlessly at his side, and Brienne momentarily wondered what he meant to do with it. “You care more for my honor than anyone ever has. You saved my life. You're still saving it.”

Her shoulders slumped. So _that_ was what this was about _._ “You saved me as well, Ser Jaime. Several times. There is no debt.”

“Debt? Gods, Brienne, I’m not talking about _owing_ you. I’m talking about _loving_ you.”

Reeling and unsteady, feeling as if the ground had crumbled from under her feet, Brienne could only gawp at him.

Frowning, Jaime clumsily reached for her hand. “I didn't mean to say it like that. I meant—I wanted to…”

“Jaime,” she whispered, and his hand tightened around hers. “You love me?”

He sighed, then smiled softly. “Yes, Brienne. I love you.”

Then, before she could even begin to think of what to say, of what to feel, he was kissing her.

Jaime had swept forward so quickly Brienne hardly knew what was happening, only that he’d completely overwhelmed her senses. She lost herself in the warmth of his lips against her own, the heat of his body crowding close to her, the rasp of his stubble against her chin. When he finally pulled his mouth away, he made no effort to move back from her. Instead, he tucked his golden hand into the slight dip at her waist and looked contentedly into her eyes.

A warm, tingling sensation, utterly unfamiliar to her, rippled outward from Brienne's chest. Breathless, she could only echo his earlier question. “When?”

“It's hard to say, really.” Jaime’s blue eyes considered her thoughtfully. “Then again, a man doesn't give a priceless Valyrian steel sword to just any woman. Nor fight bears for her.”

He grinned, a little foolishly, and Brienne couldn't hold back a smile of her own. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his face brightened even more at the sight of it.

 


End file.
